Feel
by bourbonrain
Summary: Ginny Weasley is alone in the world after the war. Draco Malfoy is determined to make her his.
1. Chapter 1

Feel

Even if their side had been victorious, their world still lay in shambles after the war. Families, including her own, had been ripped apart, murdered, maimed, destroyed – insignificant numbers among the staggering casualties reported in the Daily Prophet. Percy. Fred and George. Bill. Charlie. Ron. Mum. Dad. Gone. Eight lives, her family, diminished to mere statistics. And she was a statistic too, the other kind, the kind spared to grieve.

And what else could she do really? So she cried and cried, wandering around the Burrow alone. After all, who was left to watch after her? The cottage had seemed so small, so cozy, so overcrowded with red hair and stern words and hugs and practical jokes and …. And she would stare at Molly's famous clock, at the eight empty hands that not longer moved.

At first, her tears were hot with anger, then salty with grief, then cool with pain, then gone altogether. She discovered that a human being could only cry so much. After a while, she drifted listlessly from room to room, stifling from the heat of summer. She soon busied herself with keeping up the house, washing the floors several times a day, dusting compulsively, nearly throwing out her shoulder from flinging gnomes away from the tomato garden. She lay awake at night, wanting to cry herself to sleep, but she had no more tears to give. She slept scarce hours as the sun's rays crept over the horizon each day. Then, it was back to the furious cleaning, to keeping Molly's house in order. She ignored all owls, even the ones from Harry and Hermione. She needed to grieve alone. And thus, passed many weeks of the summer before her last year at Hogwarts. Near the end of August, as she was lost in her numb routine, the happy couple, itself, arrived at her gate.

Hermione enveloped her in a hug, and her fiancée followed in suit. They had come with news of their recent engagement. Her smile was empty as she congratulated them, promising to show up at the December wedding. She needed to be alone, away from their joy, back in her grief. Even if it was their grief too. Harry promised to take care of her. Ron's little sister, he said, is my little sister now. She thanked him and wished with all her heart that they would just leave.

But Hermione spotted the pile of bills neatly stacked and unopened. Despite the younger girl's protests, she took them, first chastising her for ignoring them completely, then declared that she would take care of them. She and Harry. Her protectors. All she had left in the world. And they had each other. She had herself. She just wanted them to leave.

Eventually, after dinner, they left. Soon, it was time to return to Hogwarts. Hermione owled her the necessary textbooks and supplies, strongly suspecting that Ginny would forget to buy them.

It wasn't that she forgot. Jus that she didn't care. She knew they would come after her if she didn't go back to school, so come mid-September, she packed her bags, cast the family's ancient wards on the Burrow, and made her way to Platform Nine and Three Quarters. And in truth, she knew it was time to leave the Burrow.

Dumbledore was gone forever. She had nearly forgotten. McGonagall was still in St. Mungo's, so the Ministry had sent a fussy wizard in her substitution. Her graduating class was noticeably smaller and the Great Hall noticeably quieter. She was so numb. Her conversations were routine, fake, superficial. Her friends expressed their condolences, but what could they really do? The hours dragged on before she went to her room, unpacked her bags, and pulled her bed curtains closed around her. In the dark, she lay awake, too restless to sleep, to tired to move.

The next morning, she received an owl from the substitute Headmaster, requiring her presence in his office. He told her to call him Headmaster Doncaster. He proceeded with the regular I'm sorry about your loss, with the These are hard times of all of us, and made his way to the matter at hand. Her tuition. With all the damages from the war, restoration of Hogwarts caused a somewhat drastic increase in the school's tuition. He understood she had limited funds. That she wasn't the only one. But if she was unable to pay at least a portion of the fee by mid-semester, that she would have to temporarily pause her enrollment.

Until when? Until she magically uncovered twelve hundred galleons? Perhaps Harry – No, that was out of the question. They had their own life now. She needed to manage her own. She said she understood, that she would find a job. Perhaps in Hogsmeade?

He agreed to grant her unlimited passage to Hogsmeade if she found employment there. Two years ago, she would have grinned from ear to ear at this news. Today, she nodded politely and rose to leave.

She did find employment, working at the local pub, serving butterbeers, wiping tables. The tips were decent. The owner was fair. But the wages would not be enough, even for the mid-semester payment. She begged for more hours.

More hours meant less sleep, which was fine with her. She struggled with her schoolwork. The busyness kept her numb, kept her sane from what had overtaken so many others. She had to keep up her grades. She wanted to start Auror training next year. Ron had wanted to be an Auror. Imagine my babies as Aurors, Molly had said proudly. Ginny squeezed her eyes shut, remembering hard. She couldn't afford to forget.

She turned down the quidditch captain's insistent nagging that she return to the team. She couldn't bring herself to even go to the games.

After some calculations, she realized even the extra hours would not earn her enough money to pay for Hogwarts. Perhaps she could owl Hermione? No. No, she couldn't ask more of them. But she couldn't drop out of school. She had to do something with her life. She had to make their sacrifices worth it. She would not disappoint. She would not fail. She would not need anyone, except herself.

She worked on the evening of her 17th birthday. The owner called her to the back, wishing her a happy birthday, and offering an intangible gift. Ginny's ears perked at the owner's words, but she had to think about it. The middle-aged woman had run the establishment since she inherited it twenty years ago. Her eyes glistened as she told Ginny her secret.

"Do you think I can afford pearls and cashmere on what this pub earns?"

Ginny looked at her inquisitively.

"My dear, what I'm about to tell you is only for those that I have taken a liking to. It must be kept secret. I will have to obliviate you if you do not take me up on my offer. Understand?"

She nodded.

"Very well. You see, fifteen years ago, I came up with the idea to open a sort of secret club, an exclusive setting that only the very privileged can enter. Exclusivity is a magic word. When only the best are allowed in, I can raise prices as high as I want. The patrons are more than happy to pay, and I am more than happy to accommodate them.

"Now, I understand that you are in need of more galleons, because the fool Ministry is putting a strain on Hogwart's students. I can offer you a way to earn this money, but it requires a bit more than bussing tables. See, these customers… they are very generous to my employees, but they also expect more than just a waitress setting their table and taking their orders."

Ginny was told she had to make a decision then and there, that this was her only chance in, or out forever. She ran her other options through her mind. Pause her education. No. Ask Harry and Hermione for help. No. Work more hours waitressing. She was behind on schoolwork as it was.

She clenched her fists in determination.

That very evening, the pub owner, who now preferred Ginny to call her Madame Ouelette, led Ginny to the secret entrance to her secret world. She was not too surprised with what she saw. Dim lighting. Swanky music. Scantily clad women carrying trays, laying beside men, dancing on a stage. They wore masks to hide their identities. Madame's girls were anonymous – beautiful, anonymous smiles with luscious bodies and soft touches.

Nothing below the waist, was Madame's policy. Anything beyond that was either a customer's violation or a girl's own business.

Two nights later, Ginny arrived as the new girl, dressed in an outfit Madame provided, her face obscured by a sequenced mask, her hands clammy in apprehension. She would be off in four hours. In four hours, she told herself, she would be back in her bed, getting a good night's rest before turning in the four feet long Defense Against Dark Arts scroll she had hurriedly finished. She fit in easily with the other girls, breasts spilling out dark fabric, stomach exposed, legs covered in fishnet.

She felt guilty. What would mum think? Dad would have a fit. Not to mention her six brothers. But if they were alive – Never mind, she was an adult now, able to make her own decisions. So, she stepped onto the floor and made her way to the group of men Madame directed her to.

She flaunted. Flirted. Laughed. Danced. They seemed satisfied. She arrived in her bed shortly after three in the morning, tired, but content clutching a bag holding nearly a hundred galleons. She made more in one night than she previously did in a week.

And so, Ginny Weasley settled into a routine. To those around her, she seemed to return to her old self. She laughed more, gossiped again, and even took to flying laps sometimes with the team. Her school work improved, because the additional wages allowed her to spend time on her studies. She wrote back to Harry and Hermione, gushing about how excited she was about their marriage, that Ron would have been happy for them, that school was going great. It was. In a sense.

At mid-semester, she paid the sum demanded by Headmaster Doncaster. And thus, Ginny Weasley was allowed to stay at Hogwarts. Two nights out of the week, she would go to work in Madame Oulette's exclusive club, and entertain rich wizards with masked charm. So what if they ogled at her ass? They paid well and that was all that mattered.

Until one day, when he came in.

Actually, the way it unfolded was she had arrived slightly late, and was received with Madame's light scolding. Several unexpected groups had arrived and the club was busier than usual. Thus, one of the club's most loyal customers was left uncared for. Where had she been?

Ginny apologized and hurried to the patron Madame directed her to. He was indeed one of their regulars, a man that she had entertained several times. His name was Edmund, he had told her, and he liked for her to dance for him, for her to serve him dry martinis with maraschino cherries, to let him touch her breasts. He was one of few who liked to touch, probably because he was one of few who could afford it.

She sauntered over, carrying a tray with his choice drink.

"There you are!" He exclaimed, accepting the glass gruffly. "We have been waiting. Never has Madame's been less accommodating."

"I'm truly sorry." She purred. "I suppose I have to make it up to you."

He pulled her down to sit beside him and chuckled. "Perhaps, but first let me introduce you to my friend." He directed her gaze to a man making his way towards them. Ginny froze as he neared.

He was dressed in very expensive robes, and on his arm was Soraya, another on of Madame's girls. It was that familiar, drawling tone. The same cocky, money-filled laugh. The slicked back blonde hair. The icy gray eyes. Oh god, Draco Malfoy was holding his hand out to her. The music seemed to freeze; air seemed to disappear. Why was he here?

She dug her nails briefly into her palm and smiled, giving him her hand. He grazed her fingertips with soft lips. His eyes held hers briefly, and for a moment, she was afraid he could see through her mask.

"Enchanted," he slurred. He was drunk. Ginny avoided the urge to roll her eyes. Soraya giggled and pulled Malfoy back to her. Ginny returned to Edmund and slyly took his drink from him.

"I can't let you have all the fun," she said, and proceeded to down the whole glass. Edmund laughed. The evening continued. She lost count of how many glasses she swallowed, but amidst all the vodka, she managed to forget Malfoy was two feet away from her, groping some skanky waitress who giggled at his every word. Ginny was disgusted. Pot. Kettle. Black. But she didn't care. She was angry. Why was he out enjoying himself? Why was he not locked up with a thousand dementors sucking away his soul? Why?

She told herself to focus on Edmund. Edmund, the sole owner of the Daily Prophet. Edmund, who liked to watch her dance, to drink dry martinis, to drip the juice from maraschino cherries on her breasts and lick them off. She was here to make money. Nothing else mattered. She would not let Draco Malfoy screw up her source of income. She made sure Edmund got his drinks. A sultry song came on. She gyrated to the beat, grinding against him more suggestively than usual. When he beckoned her closer, she pushed his hands under her top and moaned as he pinched her nipples. She threw her head back and leaned into his touch.

Somewhere, in lifting her head back to meet Edmund's gaze, she glanced over at Malfoy. He was starring at her. Soraya was gone. Where was she? Ginny panicked. Why was Malfoy starring at her? She rose off Edmund abruptly, but the alcohol had taken its effects. She slumped back on him, laughing, recovering by whispering suggestively in his ear.

Edmund smiled and gently pushed her off his lap. "Anymore from you tonight, and Madame will be kicking me out for misconduct."

"Did I do something wrong?" She reached behind his head, pulling him in close to her.

"You're drunk," he said, plainly, pulling away. "More drunk than I am. It's been fun, but ….."

Ginny zoned out to his words. He didn't seem too displeased, and as he slipped an extra few galleons to her as he rose to leave, she was not too displeased herself.

"My friend, Mr. Malfoy, will like to stay a bit longer. Since your friend Soraya has disappeared, perhaps you would like to take care of him?" He slipped her a few more galleons.

No, no I can't, she wanted to say. His father killed my family. We're sworn enemies. But she took the galleons and nodded. She sauntered, or swaggered rather, to Malfoy's side.

Fuck you, she wanted to scream at him. But instead, she slowly straddled him and talked inanely about nonsense as he sipped Madame's most expensive rum out of a glass in her hands. She took a few sips herself, and managed to convince herself to forget that this was Malfoy. He's a customer. The darkness obscured his light hair. She avoided his cold eyes. Dance for him, she told herself. But when she rose, he pulled her back down to him.

"Perhaps, you would like to go somewhere more private," he said.

She felt his hardness grinding into her and shook her head. "I don't do that."

"I saw you doing plenty with Edmund. I can pay you twice as well."

Insufferable bastard. She shook her head again. "Nothing below the waist."

He carelessly squeezed her breasts and shrugged. "How much?"

"How much for what?"

"How much for everything?"

"I'm not a whore." She rose again, this time more determinedly.

He pulled her down, harder. "How would Madame feel to know that you're drunk? That a prized customer was scared off by your appalling behavior? One word from me, and you're gone from this establishment."

She glared at him. "Fuck you, Malfoy," she sneered, before she could help herself.

"Oh, you will," he replied, without missing a beat. He leaned in so his breath was hot on her ear. "_Weasley_."

She froze. He knew.

"I always knew you were a little whore." His hands slid under her top, tugging at her nipples. "Moan for me. Beg, you mudblood-loving slut. If only your brother could see you now..."

Something in her heart snapped. She jumped up, but he was quick to follow. "One more move, and you're out of Madame's good favors. Now, I have a thousand galleons tucked away for you. Think about it Weasley – that's more than your old man made in a month."

His voice. The way he sneered her name. His hateful mannerisms. His cold presence. Strange, but it was the first familiar thing she had encountered in a long while. In a world turned upside down, the hate between them had remained constant, offering a strange sense of comfort She sat back down, smiling up at him venomously.

"Why aren't you rotting in Askaban?"

"Why? Didn't you know?" He smirked. "I switched sides at the end, helped you all win by trading the Dark Lord's secrets for my life."

"Coward."

"Perhaps, but look at me, I'm alive. I've inherited my family's immense fortune. I live comfortably, more luxuriously than you can ever imagine. I screw bitches like you out of boredom and revel in the fact that I survived. Which is more than I can say for your brothers."

Ginny flinched at his words, but didn't move. Her head was still spinning from the drinks. She needed to lie down badly. This was a bad dream. "I hate you," she whispered.

"The feeling is mutual." He then grabbed her hands, and before she could register what was happening, they were apparated away from Madame's club.

She screamed, falling into a heap. She had landed on a soft Persian rug, at his feet. She fumbled in her hair for a special hairpin Madame had given her for situations like these – a portkey to take her back to the club.

"Looking for this?"

She glared up at him just in time to see him tuck the pin into his trouser pockets.

"You're trapped."

She rose shakily and faced him. She could barely focus on his eyes. He had his father's eyes, the same icy gray that each member of her family stared into before they died. She needed to sit down. It was getting harder and harder to balance in her heels, but she forced herself to stand the best she could.

"You're pathetic," she sneered. "You need to get laid badly, don't you?" She laughed. "But even someone as desperate for money as me won't to touch you. That's got to sting. Too bad Pansy is rotting in Askaban. I personally think you should be there with her –"

"Shut up," he gritted through his teeth. "Never bring her name up in front of me. You're out of a job, Weasley. I've already made up my mind to have Madame discharge you tomorrow morning. The Malfoy name still holds power in the wizarding world and you would be wise to not upset me."

"Fuck you. My family… they're dead. Dead, because – because …"

She couldn't focus. She wanted water. She wanted to go to bed. Tomorrow was Saturday – she could sleep in. She wanted to go back. She wanted to go home. She wanted her family. Her dad to come save her. But he was dead. She was crying now, trembling, sagging into a pathetic heap at his feet. He didn't deserve to live. His father, his father killed her family. Tom Riddle. His father tricked her into Tom Riddle. She loathed him. Her heart hurt, clenching harder with every beat, pumping sorrow, grief, anger… She wanted to die, but she couldn't give him the satisfaction.

He was touching her now, his warm fingertips chilling her blood. She had forgotten who she was, what she was wearing. She felt naked, vulnerable. What had she become? He was removing her mask and she stared dully at the designs in the carpet as he uncovered a face strewn with make-up and tears. She could still feel Edmund's tongue licking her body. She shuddered. What had she become? His hands were pushing her down onto her back.

She just wanted to sleep.

He was above her now, on all fours, leaning in to… kiss her? She shivered, turning her face to the side.

"Why me?"

She could smell the alcohol on his breath. They were both so drunk. No, no, this was a bad idea.

"Shhh," he whispered. "Because you were one of _them_. A Gryffindor. A Weasley. A Muggle-lover. And now you're a whore. Look where you are. And look where I am. Above you."

She shoved him off with surprising force. He laughed. "You have no choice Weasley. Without your job at Madame's, you can't pay for Hogwarts."

"I can ask Harry for help."

"Right, because Harry Potter and his mudblood girlfriend know about your little job."

She never thought she could feel this angry. This trapped.

"That's right, they don't do they?" he continued. "That can be fixed as well. You're at my mercy, Weasley. You're lucky I'm generous enough to pay you at all."

"Asshole," she spat, crossing her arms over her chest.

He was standing now, staring down at her smugly. She rose too, to meet his gaze. Oh god, it was those gray eyes. That spiteful blonde hair, although a bit mussed now from the evening. She wanted to vomit, she told herself, but she couldn't. In reality, she hadn't felt this alive since before the deaths. The numbness was gone now and she welcomed the hate that replaced it. That old, familiar hate. Except it was just her now. With him. Alone.

"Ten thousand galleons," she said.

His eyebrows rose. "What makes you think you're worth that much?"

She shrugged. The silence between them was deafening.

"I have a better idea." He took a step forward. "Twenty thousand."

Her eyes widened in surprise.

"Twenty thousand," he continued. "For an entire year. Until this date next year, you will be under contract to me. You will come when I summon you. Then, you'll really be. My. Whore."

"I think you're too drunk for this," she began.

"No. And if I regret it tomorrow, twenty thousand is nothing to me. Mere sickles to throw at a pathetic beggar."

She stiffened. "I can't. Not for a whole year. Not with you."

She waited for a reply, but instead, he was walking towards her. Then, his hands were in her hair, pulling her face to his. Before she could react, his lips were on hers. Gently. Once. Twice. This was so wrong. It was Malfoy. She opened her mouth and his tongue was stroking hers. Somehow, her hands were all over him. In his hair, running over his chest, struggling with his shirt buttons. He pushed her backwards. She fell on something soft. A bed.

"I want you to be my whore," he whispered. "My Weasley whore."

There were tears running down her cheeks. Up until now, she had forgotten how to _feel_. Her heart hurt so bad. Her mind buzzed with such anger. She bit his lips, his neck, his earlobes. She gave up on the buttons and yanked his shirt open angrily. Her fingernails drew red lines on his back.

She was completely unclothed beneath him. His hands were everywhere. On her breasts, trailing fire over her stomach. Inside her. It was so good to hate, to feel. She arched her back and gasped. Her mind was fuzzy with emotion, with the intense euphoria his fingers were creating in her. She tugged at his belt, then bit her lip in disappointment as he withdrew his fingers. He removed his pants and she wasted no time in grabbing him. Stroking him. Pushing him on his back so she could run her tongue on his length.

His breath shuddered as she took him in her mouth. Up. Down. Deeper. His fingers were in her hair. Then pulling her off him. He leaned forward and kissed her, tasting his precum on her tongue. His fingers were back in her. She was dizzy with hate, with pleasure, with release. She was panting heavily as he pushed her back onto her back and positioned himself at her entrance.

Her tears were dried now. He hesitated, looking into her eyes. She tilted her head up and kissed him. He was inside her. Oh god oh god oh god. Long. Deep. Hard. Harder. The bed rattled with each thrust. Her hands were gripping his shoulders. Her legs wrapped around him. She clenched around him. Oh god oh god oh god. She felt him twitch inside her, his cool cum spilling. He came to a rest and lay his head in the crook of her neck.

This was Draco Malfoy on top of her. Inside of her still. Had she forgotten? No, no she knew it was him all along. He was kissing her again, his tongue probing for entrance. She let him. God, it was good to feel alive. His hands were on her breasts again, kneading, tugging, squeezing.

Soon, he was inside her again. She pushed him onto his back and slowly lowered herself on to him. Oh god oh god. He was thrusting. Eager. She didn't mind. This was Draco Malfoy. She didn't mind. Because he made her hate. Because he made her cry. Because he made her remember.

She came, clenching tightly around him. He flipped her back onto her back and pounded in her. It hurt, but she didn't care. Pain was good. She wrapped her legs around him until she felt the coolness of his cum filling her again.

After a few minutes, he pulled out and lay beside her. She hurt. She felt empty. She would be sore tomorrow. Hell, she was sore already.

She stared up at the ceiling

"Twenty thousand, it is then," he drawled.

She didn't reply right away, but let him pull her to him. She welcomed his warmth. Who knew Draco Malfoy could be so warm? His thumb was doing something with her clit. Her heart quickened.

"Twenty thousand it is."

End of Chapter One


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

That night, Ginny discovered it was impossible to sleep with alcohol in her system. After he pulled out of her for the last time, he turned on his side, faced the other way, and became oblivious to her presence. She lay beside him, skin still moist from it all, suddenly sober and incredibly thirsty. It was time to leave.

He felt her rise, listened as she quietly gathered the scraps of sequins and silk that had covered her body. He pictured her dressing herself, her wince as she pulled her underwear over the dried juices of their sex, as the cloth of her top rubbed uncomfortably against her nipples. He pictured her standing before the mirror on his dresser, tugging her rumpled auburn waves into a quick ponytail.

Then, he heard a sniffle, then another one - quiet, ashamed, guilty. He listened to the clicking of his belt buckle as she went though his pants pockets, recovering the portkey.

"The money is on the table."

But she was already gone. He shifted, turning onto his back. The bed reeked of sex, of fucking, of hate. He drifted to sleep unwillingly, thinking of those sad, brown eyes, flecked with green and brimming with anger. The whole night had been on a whim. Edmund convinced him to join him at Madame's, saying Draco needed to get out of his slump. And there she had been, the Weasle's little sister, Harry Potter's ex-girlfriend, Ginny Weasley, Gryffindor beater, dressed in fishnets and black silk that barely covered anything. He watched as she laughed and flirted, her grin toothy, but her eyes empty. He watched as she downed glass after glass after glass, as she threw her head back, letting Edmund lick that red, sticky juice off her chest. He caught her eye then. He had sent Soraya away; the bint bored him.

But Ginny fucking Weasley... _she_ fascinated him. Then, he realized. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Proud, stubborn Gryffindor - too much pride to ask Potter for money. So here she was, whoring herself. Vulnerable. Pitiful. Enchanting. When she approached him, he went in for the kill.

It wasn't about the Gryfindor-Slytherin rivalry anymore. It wasn't about the Death Eaters versus the Order. It wasn't about her dead family, or his. As his head buzzed from too much rum, he knew he had to have her. He just had to.

And now, several hours later, the deed was done. If anyone asked him, he would probably write the night off as a good fuck. After all, she was seventeen and desperate, with full lips, long lashes, and hourglass curves. Who wouldn't offer to do her? Never mind that she was the little sister of the golden trio, or that she was born of a family his scorned, or that she had turned him into a ferret so many years ago. Never mind that he couldn't put his finger on exactly why he had to have her writhing beneath him, eyes filled with shame and hands reaching to pull him down for more.

But boy oh boy, would he make her keep her word. He knew twenty thousand galleons would be sufficient to pay her tuition, plus any debts the late Arthur Weasley had left in her hands. And in return, she would come to him, secretly yearning for more And she would keep coming (no pun intended), until he figured out exactly what it was in her that he wanted to have, to hurt, to destroy, or otherwise. It was past the point of revenge, not that he, himself, knew what that meant.

Just to keep things in suspense, Draco waited several weeks, until Hogwarts let out for Christmas break, before owling for her presence. In the mean time, he had gone to Madame Oulette, ordered that Virginia Weasley be discharged from club duties, and heard several days later that the good woman had allowed the girl to return to her former post as pub waitress. He then owled the Madame again, requesting for her hours be cut down to two a week.

Let her squirm.

This was all simply insurance to make sure she would show up to the gates of Malfoy Manor, exactly three days upon receiving his owl. It worked.

It was ten o'clock in the evening. He waited in the parlor as a house elf answered the door.

"Follow me," the creature squeaked. The clicking of her heels followed the house elf's barefoot steps in the cold halls.

"Tea," Draco told the house elf when they finally arrived. As it scampered off, she was left standing alone in the doorway, dressed in a knee-length paisley-print skirt and a white cardigan. Her curls were pinned neatly behind her ears and her fingers clutched a small handbag.

"Please sit." He motioned to the chair opposite to him. His calm tone betrayed nothing of his reaction to her arrival. In truth, her prim appearance unsettled him a bit - a simple reminder that they were both sober now. Skirt and Slacks. Cardigan and Collared Shirt. Standing proper and Sitting straight. Tea. And Biscuits. She wasn't sauntering up to him, half-naked, and falling drunkenly into his lap with a glass of rum. Her make-up-less face differed from that of the girl arching her back to his touch, eyeliner smeared, lip-stick crimson. It wasn't Madame's exclusive club anymore – it was Malfoy Manor – cold, pristine, antique, dark. Here, he always had the upper hand.

He collected himself inwardly as she sat, and met her gaze coolly.

"Before we begin, I would like to make our agreement official." He presented her with a six-inch piece of parchment, detailing the rules. His rules. "Magically binding of course. You have only need to sign at the dotted line."

The quill was already laid before her. His eyebrows raises as she picked it up and signed without even reading the terms.

Upon setting the feather down, she looked at him expectantly. "Where's my money?" she asked. Her face showed nothing, a blank slate.

He laughed. "Patience. Truly, it astonishes me how quickly a proud Gryffindor succumbs to prostitution. Then again, you are a Weasley. Poor. Sniveling. Beggar." Let her know how he sees her.

Nothing. No reaction. Just a sip from her cup of freshly poured tea. She set it down gently, a tiny clink of china in the grand room.

"I'm not here to play that game Malfoy. We're both a little too old to be calling names, don't you think? The facts are on the table. I need money. You can't get laid. Problem solved."

"Now look who's being childish," he said, unable to help adding, "We both know I have no problem getting any woman." Petty. But he had to say it. " In this case, the money conveniently puts you in my servitude, but don't lie to yourself." His voice fell low, almost to a whisper. "When you're lying beneath me, screaming my name, I know you want it just as much as I do."

When she opened her mouth to retort, he lifted a finger to his lips to silence her.

"Listy!" he called for the house elf. "Come clear the table."

They sat in silence as the elf scurried into the room and with a snap made the platter of tea and biscuits disappear.

"Now, leave the room and close the door. We are not to be disturbed."

He watched her carefully through all this. She fidgeted under his gaze, picking at her nails, tucking imaginary strands behind her ears. Make her uncomfortable. Let her squirm.

When the door slammed shut, he swore he saw her flinch. To ease the silence, he cast a spell to make music play. Something slow and sultry filled the room, and there they sat, still opponents in a chess game.

"Come make me hard, Weasley."

Her eyes darkened. With visible resolve, she rose. With her wand, she pushed the table away so nothing stood between them. He could see her mind shift – she was back in Madame's underground club, wearing her glittering mask, eyes lined with charcoal black. She seemed to look right through him as she unpinned her hair, letting it fall in soft waves down her back. Slowly, she unbuttoned her sweater and threw it aside. Then the skirt came unzipped. Stepped out of. Kicked away.

He wasn't one to use Weasley and beautiful in the same sentences, so he didn't. But he would. Tall. Lithe. Soft. That long red hair. Those perfect, perfect lips.

She was approaching him now, in nothing but lacey undergarments and a camisole. By the time she reached him, it was just lacey undergarments. She settled herself between his legs, swaying her hips with every movement, lips parted, perfume wafting. His pants tightened as she leaned in, her pink tongue darting out to flick his earlobe.

And there, she stilled.

"How," she whispered softly.

She kissed him lightly on the lips.

"Does." She wordlessly magicked his buttons undone.

"It." Her small hands undid his belt and unzipped his pants.

"Feel?"

His dick was out now, in her hands. Her gaze met his boldly as she stroked him and didn't look away as she breathed hot air onto him, but didn't take him in her mouth. Instead, she rose so that her lips were level with his.

"How does it feel," she asked again softly. "To know that you're getting Harry Potter's leftovers?"

She didn't have time to scream, before her mouth was shoved over his cock and she was gagging from his thrusts. Both his hands were gripping her hair, and hers were clawing at his to let her go.

"Bite and you'll regret it dearly. Understand?"

She nodded the best she could.

"Now listen here, Weasley." He thrust into her again.

"Does it hurt that Potter is marrying the Granger instead of you?"

Bastard. Tears were forming in her eyes and the back of her throat hurt from his force. She had done this before, but never like this.

"I bet you're invited to the wedding, maid-of-honor and everything. I hear the date is coming up. A fairy-tale affair – the boy-who-lived and his mudblood bride. And standing next to them, faking a smile, in some dress _she_ picked out – " He thrust especially hard. " - is you. Well, that smile is bound to disappear altogether if a little bird comes to the wedding banquet and whispers in Potter's ear. Granger will overhear and come over. There will be photographs of you and perhaps a nice, rich man like Edmund, or me even. Visual proof is always a nice touch, don't you think? You'll see the happy couple approach angrily and you – "

He stopped in surprise as she suddenly gave up on the struggle on his grip in her hair and began running her hands along his inner thigh. It was all too much. Little Ginny Weasley was sucking his cock. Massaging his balls. He couldn't hold it any longer. His cum was spilling out of her mouth when he let her go.

She pulled away, disgusted, coughing up the salty mess. She refused to meet his eyes as she panted, spitting his cum onto his mother's expensive carpet. There she was, on her knees, tears running again, one bra strap no longer on her shoulder, with that soft red hair spilling over her shoulders. He was almost hard again.

"And you," he continued, "You will try and explain how you would rather fuck me than – "

"Stop." Her voice was tight. "I get the point."

He smirked. "I see that you do. So it would be wise to cease making _any_ remarks that might make me unhappy. Understood?"

"You should have written the point into your contract."

He sighed inwardly. Her biting remarks would never disappear completely, but really, he wasn't paying her to be polite.

He spoke as he tucked himself back into his pants. "I would prefer for you to stay here each evening for the duration of your winter vacation. Much better than that shabby cottage of yours. Afraid Potter and Granger won't be visiting much this holiday." He stood. "They'll be too busy screwing on their honeymoon."

"I suppose they will." And so will we.

"Listy will take you to a guest room."

As if on cue, the house elf appeared and stood at the door, waiting for her to rise.

"You don't own me, Malfoy. You can't hold me here against my will."

"I'm not. You will stay here, on your own volition. By signing the contract, you have agreed to follow my –"

"I have to go to the wedding," she interrupted, straight to the point.

"I won't stop you. I don't care what you do during the day, as long as you're here between the hours of ten and sunrise."

"What if it's an evening wedding?"

"Is it? "

"I don't know." She hadn't opened the invitation yet, instead shoving the envelope somewhere in her bureau.

"Then we'll talk about it when you know."

"Fine." She rose and quickly pulled her clothes back on. A few pert steps and she and Listy disappeared into the hall.

He slept well that night, knowing that she was just across the hall, sexually unsatisfied and uncomfortable in the dark, grand guest room.

He wasn't wrong. She lay tossing and turning under a goose down comforter and thousand thread count sheets. She was out of the manor as soon as the sun was up. Upon reaching the Burrow, she ran up to her room and dug around her dresser for the envelope.

It turned out to be an afternoon wedding, but with festivities that would last till midnight. Christ, it was in four days. How fitting – Christmas eve. Now every year when Christmas rolled around, she could think of Harry marrying Hermione. It didn't matter, she told herself. Not that he was her first crush. Her first real love. Her dark-haired hero.

Then again, he was everyone's dark-haired hero, wasn't he?

And Hermione, Hogwart's premiere head girl - always brilliant, now stunningly beautiful too. How could Harry resist when she came to him, sobbing her heart over Ron? He took her in his arms and in their grief over their best friend, they found each other.

Touching.

Who was little Ginny Weasley to stop them? To remind him she still loved him? She wouldn't stoop so low. Besides, with death all around her, she had little will to do anything. So she watched silently and swallowed her feelings each time they walked into a room together. She told herself she would hold her head high and move on.

She had spent much of her adolescence showing the world that she wasn't some weak creature who lost everything to Tom Riddle. No, she had always been determined to come on out top. Star beater. Gryffindor Prefect. Oustandings on all her O.W.L.'s. Bright. Charming. Sweet. A dozen boys wrapped around her little finger.

And she really thought she had it all when he finally kissed her in fifth year. He, the boy whom she kept in the back of her heart, secret from everyone including herself, had finally decided to love her back. When they parted ways, it was because he loved her too much. It was because he didn't want Voldemort to target her. All for her own good. She didn't care, she had told him. But he insisted, tears in his emerald eyes as he pleaded with her. After the war was over, he said. If they survived…

Bullshit.

And now she was fucking his arch-nemesis. Did it feel good? Was it satisfying? Had she wanted Malfoy to get her off when she was gagging on his cum?

Most definitely.

Was she ashamed?

Even more definitely.

But he made her feel alive. That one night, filled with mutual hate and self-loathing, reminded her of her own existence. She remembered that Ginny Weasley always came out on top. The next day, she had told the quidditch captain that she was ready to play again. They pummeled Slytherin in her first match back on the team. It felt good to play again.

She was almost relieved when Madame Oullete had told her she could no longer be one of "her girls." It meant that Malfoy was serious, that he meant business about the twenty thousand galleons. It would just be a job, she told herself. Really, how much less demeaning was the one she already had?

Nothing below the waist. Anything more was either a patron's violation or a girl's own business.

And it's not as if she hadn't made other… exceptions to Madame's rule.

Then seeing him when sober, listening to taunts that hit a little close to home – it hurt and not in a good way. She was a wreck when she tore through her bureau, fumbling the envelope open.

"The wedding will take up the whole evening," she said when she saw him the next night.

"Then, because you are taking that one day off, our contract of one year will be extended by one day."

She rolled her eyes. Whatever.

He was in a bath, resting comfortably against mosaic tiles. It was the first time she ever saw him without his pale hair gelled back flawlessly. The water darkened his hair. He looked younger, more innocent, more approachable. The room was slightly steamy and was lit by a chandelier hung above the tub. Luxury.

"When will I get the money?"

"I'll make sure your tuition is covered. And you'll get the rest when our contract is up."

"Good."

She began to undress and he didn't object when she entered his bath. He simply watched her matter-of-fact motions as she undid her hair, as she noticed the wine bottle and the glasses, as she poured the red liquid and handed him one. She was next to him now, gulping the wine as if there was gold at the bottom of the glass.

"Eager, Weasley?" He sipped.

She set the glass down and poured herself another one.

"Just thought I'd save you the trouble of asking."

He almost smiled at her response. "You seem pretty at ease with this whole situation."

"It seems so."

"That is, I'm sure I'm not getting just Potter's leftovers. Who else has had you?"

"It's none of your business."

"You're no blushing virgin and I'm rather curious as to who exactly you've fucked. At least give me a number."

She gaped at him. Here she was, naked beside him, and he hadn't even made a move to touch her. Instead, he was interrogating her about her sexual history.

"I've lost count." And to keep him from asking any more questions, she kissed him.

When her lips hit his, he made a mental note to pursue the matter at a later time and pulled her closer so there was no space between their bodies. She pulled away slightly when he stuck a finger inside her. He smirked as she gasped, and grinned when she asked for more fingers.

He stuck to two, because she winced at three.

"At least you're still tight," he sneered.

"Am I supposed to take offense at that?" She gripped his shoulders tightly to steady her breath.

"So who Weasley? Who was your first? Dean Thomas? Michael Corner? Potter?" He was curling his fingers against her walls, first hard and slow, then he sped up until she gave in and let out a soft cry.

She exhaled in shuddering gasps. "None," she bit out. "Of. Your. Business."

She was going to come soon. He could tell by the way she was tightening quicker around him. And just to be cruel, he pulled his fingers out, leaving her disappointed and unsatisfied.

"Bastard," she breathed, visibly shaken from his sudden withdrawal.

"I think it is my business." He backed away from her and calmly took his wine glass and sipped. He was hard, but he could wait.

She glared at him, suddenly feeling cold in the warm water. Trust Malfoy to make her felt awkward and vulnerable, breath still ragged, unclothed in the large bath. Following his lead, she gulped down her second glass of wine and poured her third.

"You're paying me to have sex with you," she said, "Not to tell you details of my personal life."

The wine was starting to hit. Good.

"It was Potter, wasn't it? Was it beautiful? Did he promise to love you forever?" he went on. "Or perhaps your virginity was lost to … Tom Riddle."

She froze. He was testing her, provoking her. And it looked like it worked.

"Fuck you, asshole," she seethed. "Unlike you, I didn't screw everything with breasts and two legs in Hogwarts, but I didn't exactly have Lucius Malfoy for a father either."

"Careful, Weasley," he warned, hands tightening around his glass when she mentioned his father's name.

"That's right, Malfoy. I'm talking about your daddy. Voldemort's right hand man. The great Lucius Malfoy who bribed his way to the top, who paid for your grades, who beat his wife –"

"That's enough, slut." He was losing control of the situation. "Or are you looking forward to choking on my cum again?"

Ignoring him, she kept going. "Is that why you like it rough Malfoy? Daddy's aggression rubbing off on you?"

When he didn't reply right away, she continued.

"We all knew the Death Eaters liked to rape their victims. Tell me, _Draco_, did you partake in these festivities? Did you come hard as you stuck your dick in some muggle girl?"

She knew she was pushing it. He was suddenly quite pale, with those familiar blotches of anger on this cheeks. She could see the muscles in his jaw clench in anger.

"What's the matter, Malfoy? Words hitting too close to home? Don't worry. I won't tell a soul. Because guess what? The whole world already knows. You're a monster. Born from one. Bred as one. Always one."

They were across from each other in the bubbling tub, holding glares through the steam. And in one swift move, he was on her side of the water, one arm on each side of her, boxing her in against the bath's wall. With a tinge of regret, she wished she hadn't said quite so much. He was almost trembling with anger and she braced herself for any imminent blows to her face. But instead, he leaned in and said, very evenly, "I know you wanted to come, but you don't have to be such a bitch because you didn't."

Then, as if they had just shared a civil conversation, he calmly stepped away from her, rose from the water, donned a robe, and left the room.

Not knowing quite what to think, and feeling rather woozy already, she decided that she deserved to get piss drunk and to stay that way until after the wedding. Forget Malfoy. What was she supposed to do? Go after him? Apologize? Sorry, you poor misunderstood rich bastard. Yeah fucking right. With determination, she gave up on glasses altogether and took a swig out of the bottle. Fucked up couldn't even begin to describe her life at the moment.

On her way to the guest room Malfoy had designated to her, she actually felt pretty good, swaying down the hall, wrapped in a soft towel and bottle still in hand.

When she opened the door, the bottle crashed to the floor. He was sitting on her bed, dressed in a black robe, a decanter of brandy in hand. Nearly empty, she noted.

"You startled me," she said stupidly.

"Come have a drink with me, Weasley."

"I'm quite alright, actually," she replied, still standing in the middle of spilt wine and green glass.

"It wasn't a question." He held out a glass insistently.

She stood dumbly at the door and stared, rather unfocusedly, unwilling to move closer anytime soon.

"Fuck, Weasley," he slurred, half to himself. He strode to her, crushing bottle bits beneath his feet. "Drink."

The glass was stuck under her nose and without much thinking, she took it and downed it. Then, it too dropped to the floor and smashed. The decanter followed.

His hands were on her waist, lifting her. She wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck. They crashed onto the bed, tongues pushing, teeth biting, lips bruising, her damp towel between them. His robe came untied and her towel was tossed aside. And then he was inside her. Her head spun with nothingness. Just him pushing in. His hands running over her skin. Him pulling out.

He held her head in his hands and forced her to look at him as he pushed into her. "Why do you like it rough, Weasley?"

"Because it makes me hurt," she answered, too drunk and distracted to lie.

"Is that why you provoke me?" In the dim lighting, his gray eyes were bright with liquor and even in her haziness, his gaze made her squirm.

"I don't know."

"You like it when I go too hard."

And so he slowed, taking his time in pushing into her. Making sure she felt every second of ever movement, of him filling her.

Agony. Pleasure.

"I'm not my father."

Her brow furrowed. She didn't say anything. Couldn't.

"I'm not my father," he said again, more insistently.

He was so hard, but he had to take it slow. Had to make her beg. Make her understand. The little slut. The cheap whore. His whore.

His voice was tight, determined. She had to see how wrong she was.

"You don't know anything, bitch. You don't know anything, so shut the fuck up."

She lifted her head to silence him. The kiss was soft, like the way he was kneading her breasts gently. Almost lovingly.

Almost, she thinks, because it should never be loving with Malfoy. She had never made love before, and she wasn't ready to start with him. Except maybe he's started with her. What was he trying to prove? Her head was spinning. She liked feeling this way – too gone to hurt, herself or anyone else. And somehow, this painstakingly slow pace filled her more than anyone ever had before.

"Please." She didn't know what she was asking for.

"Is this how you did it with Potter?" he said, suddenly.

"No," she whispered before she could stop herself. No, because she never did it with Potter.

And she only stopped saving herself after she knew she could never have him.

"Don't," she said. "Don't ever mention him when you're inside me."

He stilled. Want. Lust. Control. "Don't ever tell me what to do."

One sharp thrust. It was back to their first night. Carnal and Unrestrained, but he stilled again.

"Don't ever tell me who I am."

Her eyes widened. He had taken her words seriously. She didn't mean it. Just words to defend herself. But why bother explaining? Let him hurt. Let them hurt together. Each other. Themselves.

"Beg, Weasley. I want to hear you beg."

"Please," she said again. "Malfoy, please."

She came hard when he complied. He followed, his release long overdue.

His breath stayed hot on her neck, his chin resting over her shoulder. They remained like that for a long while, too long, her hands resting lightly on his back. His in her hair. Him still inside her. Still twitching occasionally. Peace. Satisfaction. In the enemy, a secret moment found, unadmitted later, especially not to themselves.

End of Chapter 2

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	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don't own any of J.K. Rowling's characters, storylines, or genius.

Chapter 3

The dress Hermione sent her was pink. Pink and red hair. As if she wasn't enough of a wreck.

"At least, it isn't green," Malfoy had said when she reluctantly told him. Green for envy. Very funny.

"Actually," she had replied matter-of-factly. "Green looks much better with red hair."

Unsurprisingly, he was extremely sensitive to her tenseness pertaining to the wedding, making sure to dig the knife in where it hurt every time his Weasley-is-vulnerable radar sounded, which usually was before, during, and after sex. Thus, the night before the wedding, hours after he turned over and told her to get out of his room, she lay awake across the hall, unable to sleep.

An hour after sunrise, she was back in the Burrow, with her makeup already complete and her wet hair still wrapped in a towel. The wedding party was due to meet at nine and she wanted to look perfect. Ginny Weasley would not be a wreck during Hermione and Harry's wedding. She would smile, hug, kiss, and chatter with every ounce of charm she had.

This resolution was put into effect as soon as she apparated to 412 Grimwauld Place.

You look so beautiful.

The dress is gorgeous!

Harry won't know what hit him when he sees you.

Don't you agree, Lavender?

Parvati, let me help you with the flowers in your hair.

Here, Molly's pearls complete it perfectly. You know you must have something borrowed!

Oh yes, they are lovely together. We all saw it coming, didn't we?

Look at the time, why Hermione, we still have to do blush and lip color!

Mrs. Granger, your daughter is stunning!

Pink is a delightful color. She couldn't have picked a better shade for our dresses.

Beautiful. Lovely. Gorgeous. Delightful. And many exclamation marks. Ginny didn't know how, but she managed to use all of the above as she felt a maid of honor should. She was exhausted as the priest recited some sermon Hermione choose, but she forced herself to stand straight, to hold her bouquet primly, and smile angelically upon the happy couple.

Unfortunately, Hermione's chosen sermon proved to be especially long and Ginny found herself spacing out. At one point, she caught herself scanning the crowd and found a pair of gray eyes and a smirk fixed on her. She immediately resumed staring at the back of Hermione's veil, unconsciously clutching her bouquet so hard that she cut her thumb from a thorn the florist missed.

Fuck. What was he doing here? She realized it was a high-profile, society wedding, but really, why Malfoy? Forcing herself to resume the angelic smiling, she felt her face grow hot from his burning gaze. He was judging her, appraising her performance. She figured everyone suspected some underlying jealousy in Ginny Weasley, but he – he _knew. _

Finally, the sermon ended. Then, Padma got up onto a floating podium, and sang a tearful love song for the lovely and/or delightful couple. Ginny felt sick to her stomach. She couldn't bear to look away from Hermione's veil, in fear that she might catch Harry's green eyes and burst into tears. She felt even sicker, aware that this marriage still bothered her this much, now that it was occurring and all.

No one asked any questions when she disappeared after the ceremony, because she reappeared in five quick minutes with such renewed vigor and cheerfulness that no one suspected a thing. She was pulling through alright, until Harry came up to her and asked to speak to her privately.

No, she thought immediately. Not here. Not now. But she cleverly took the opportunity to question him severely as to why Malfoy was present.

"Harry! Malfoy of all people!"

"Ginny." The way he sad her name made her heart skip. "You know he was on the right side in the end. Without him, the war could have dragged on for at least three more years."

"But, his father -"

"He isn't his father." She tensed momentarily as his words echoed Malfoy's own. Ironic. "Listen, Ginny. I was there when he… when he didn't kill Dumbledore. He, he isn't – Shit, Ginny, let's not talk about Malfoy."

"Why are you defending him?" She pressed, afraid of what he might say if she let him.

"Forget him. Ginny, I have to tell you this. After Ron died, I just – "

"Oh, look! Hermione is dancing with her father! How darling!" She cut him off before he sad anything dangerous. "You simply must ask Mrs. Granger to dance."

"But – "

And she had already disappeared, engaging herself in conversation with Tonks and Remus. When she was brave enough to look to see where Harry had gone, she was relieved to see him dancing with Mrs. Granger as she had suggested.

"Well done, Weasley." That drawling voice.

She spun around to find an infuriatingly haughty smile and a hand extended, holding out a glass of champagne.

"Would you like to toast to the happy couple?"

"Why didn't you tell me you would be here?"

"I thought I would enjoy the look on your face when you figured it out for yourself." He leaned in past her comfort zone. "And I did."

She took the glass and walked away coolly. She wasn't obligated to deal with him today and honestly didn't have the energy to.

Two banquets. And hours and hours of dancing. Of course, she had too many glasses of champagne. Fortunately, she fit right in with the rest of the guests, as well as a few reporters who had crashed the wedding. In a strange way, she felt like she was back at Madame's. With her mind buzzing pleasantly, it was never too hard to sweet talk a customer, or to compliment Cho Chang's designer shoes, or to hug Hermione and then kiss her soundly on the cheek.

But just as she had always been relieved when Madame said she could leave, she was more than ready to go home at midnight and … And what? Cry herself to sleep?

No tears came as she lay tossing and turning for the second night in a row. Too buzzed to sleep, too empty to cry, she decided to do the only thing that came to mind.

"I gave you the night off, Weasley."

He was barefoot in a robe when he met her in the parlor.

"I know, but I -" She stopped mid-sentence as she approached him. He _reeked_ of sex. She stumbled back warily. "You're fucking someone else."

"Did you somehow get the impression that you would get exclusive rights to fucking me?"

"Asshole! How many girls do you have to go through? You have a problem, Malfoy, You're fucking addicted to sex –"

"And you're an alcoholic. We're not perfect, Weasley."

"I am _not_ an alcoholic!" She was yelling now, trembling with rage. "You're just fucking someone else to make me angry."

"Right, because I was expecting you to be knocking on my door tonight and catching me red-handed. And I use that phrase very lightly because I am not guilty of anything since you had made it so perfectly clear to me that you wanted the night off."

"Who is she?" she asked before she could help herself.

"Some former Ravenclaw who threw herself at me at the wedding. You know, some girls don't cry every time I fuck them."

"That's not fair," she whispered.

He didn't answer. Now that he was witnessing the ever-confident Ginny Weasley diminished to a drunk, desperate, pink-chiffon-donning mess he wasn't really quite sure what he could say to… to continue the conversation.

"Is she still here?"

He cleared his throat. "Uh, no, she isn't."

"Right."

Then, in a heaving motion that surprised even herself, she threw up. He watched tiredly as she emptied her stomach of the countless glasses of champagne she gulped down earlier in the evening.

"Jesus, Weasley," he sighed, rushing forward to catch her before she passed out. He quickly did a cleaning spell on his mother's carpet before ripping the dress off of her and incinerating it. She had been absolutely breathtaking at the wedding, he recalled, even dressed in that ridiculous gown. Needless to say, there was not and would never be an unflattering word said about her regarding Harry. He wondered if anyone ever saw her like this – broken, hurting, needing. Anyone, except him.

"Potter isn't worth this," he said to her unconscious form. He isn't worth you. But that thought was pushed so far back into Draco's mind, he convinced himself he never had it.

The infamous morning after. She felt like such crap that she buried her head back in the pillows and slept till it was dark again. It wasn't until the second time she woke up that she realized she was in Malfoy Manor and that she had put on a ridiculous display in Malfoy's parlor the night before.

"Weasley is awake." Lispy remarked, approaching her carefully. "Master Malfoy told Lispy to wait until you're awake to feed you."

"Oh," Ginny said. "What time is it?"

"Half-past five."

"Goodness, I should go home."

"No!" the house-elf cried. "Master Malfoy told Lispy to feed you when you wake. You must eat!"

"What? Is he trying to poison me?" she snapped.

"No! Master Malfoy would never do such a thing!"

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Look, Lispy, I really have to go home…"

"Lispy cannot disobey Master Malfoy. Lispy will have to iron her ears!"

The house elf's proclamations of servitude reminded Ginny of Hermione's S.P.E.W. tirade, making her even more impatient.

"Don't iron your ears," she snapped childishly.

"Then Weasley must stay!"

Without the proper energy to argue with an insistent, self-threatening house-elf, Ginny gave in. When she had drank the potion, and eaten enough for Lispy's satisfaction, she found herself unable to apparate from inside the manor, and unable to recover the dress she wore the night before. The former was no surprise, but the latter a bit of a mystery.

Had Malfoy undressed her and put her in bed? After – oh god – after she had thrown up in his parlor? And she had berated him for sleeping with someone else. Fuck, why would she even care who he screwed? Why had she even come here?

Then, at the best possible moment, he walked in.

"You may go, Lispy."

"Where's my dress?" she asked as the house-elf disappeared with a pop.

"I burned it."

"Oh," she said in surprise. "Good."

She found it hard to meet his eyes, especially when standing in her knickers with yesterday's makeup still half-on.

"Here," he thrusted a package at her. "Go bathe and put this on."

"I want to go home for a bit."

"Suit yourself. Be back here at ten. Wearing that."

"Sure, okay, whatever."

Sure. Okay. Whatever. Ginny cringed as the words came out of her mouth. He'll know he's won now, she thought, wanting more than anything to melt into a puddle and disappear.

She ended up flooing back to the Burrow. There, she received an owl from Harry and Hermione, thanking her for the lovely tea set she had bought them, inviting her to visit them on their honeymoon in France. All expenses paid.

No fucking way.

She scrubbed herself furiously in the shower, angry at her actions the night before and heart aching at whatever Harry and Hermione might have done as she went to Malfoy begging. Begging for what?

She couldn't go back to Malfoy's place tonight; she couldn't bear to face him.

She did go eventually though, about two hours late. When she returned to the manor, he was waiting for her impatiently.

"Sorry," she mumbled.

"Is this another one of your attempts to make me angry so I'll fuck you harder?" He was reading, of all things, in the study when she arrived. He was wearing glasses, she noted in surprise. Somehow, they made him look downright –

She stopped herself before her thoughts took her to a censored place. Fucking Malfoy was alright because she was getting something out of it, but thinking that he was handsome was a whole new ballpark. And so she didn't. Didn't think he was handsome, that is.

"Sure, why not," she answered. "And you can use the opportunity to prove just how _unlike_ your father you really are."

He snapped his book shut. She was back, and by "she," he didn't mean the sobbing mess that came to his door yesterday. That Ginny Weasley scared him – this one was manageable. Never mind the jab at his own insecurities - he almost smiled as he took of his glasses and set them on his book.

"I see you wore the dress."

"Yes."

"Well, aren't you going to thank me for it?"

Was he serious? "Thanks for the dress, Malfoy," she said dryly.

The look on his face told her she had fallen into a trap. "Oh, don't thank me. Thank the Ravenclaw who left it behind last night."

She reddened considerably as he completed his sentence. Crack. Floor. Disappear. Now.

"Goodness, you really enjoy the whole kick them while they're down thing, don't you?" she retorted after a few seconds. "If I didn't know any better, I would think you're paying twenty thousand pounds so you can play bully in your free time."

Despite her considerably speedy response, she felt like her skin was crawling in the other woman's dress. She had thought it rather beautiful when she took it out of the package, and even felt slightly cheered as she smoothed the caressing material and pulled it on before her bedroom mirror. The color of dark jade and lined with gold embroidery, the strapless dress was cut in such a way that her waist was hugged tightly, but the skirt came out of the bodice in the most elegant manner. She felt classy, sophisticated – even beautiful.

Ironic. It wasn't just some other girl's dress. It was some other girl whom he fucked instead of her.

"I don't care what you say, " he laughed. "I got you good."

She rolled her eyes. "Fine, then go laugh about it with Crabbe and Goyle and leave me the fuck alone."

"Now, that wouldn't be any fun." He rose and made his way to her. "Relax, Weasley. You shouldn't feel the need to pretend around me. I already happen to know," his voice dropped to a whisper, "that you can't wait to get out of this dress."

"You're sick." But not wrong.

She tensed as he came to stand behind her, lifting a hand to stroke the side of her neck, the other wrapping around her waist. Is this how he touched the other girl last night? She asked herself this over and over as he kissed her earlobe, as he sucked gently on her neck, as he ran his hands over her breasts and squeezed them gently before unzipping the dress.

It wasn't that she was jealous. He just had a special gift for making her feel cheap. For making her cheap. After all, when had Ginny Weasley become just another girl to fuck?

She didn't want the answer.

He pressed himself against her back, pulling her in by her waist.

You know some girls don't cry every time I fuck them.

And still, she couldn't help herself. She trembled with sobs as he turned her around.

He was bewildered again by the teary mess before him. He had wanted to see her weak, he told himself. His goal was to make her like this, only he hadn't expected it to happen so soon. There was a reason the contract was for a year. He hadn't expected her to fall apart so quickly, before he was ready to kick her away.

So he touched his lips to hers softly. She didn't kiss him back. Couldn't.

This was only the fifth day of their contract and she had already forgotten why she signed on. The money. Tuition. Becoming an Auror without Harry's help. She reminded herself desperately, but by that point, she was so far gone, she barely noticed Draco Malfoy lifting her into his arms and carrying her to his bedroom. She simply wrapped her arms around his neck and cried. It didn't matter that she was sobbing in her underwear on the enemy's shoulder – at least there was someone to hold her.

The tears soaking his shirt were her catharsis and the dress lying on the floor of his study was the trigger. She was so sick of pretending. Because the honest truth was that there was so much building up inside her that she hadn't known where to begin to let it out. She had been brave as her brothers died one by one at the hands of Lucius Malfoy. Even Percy. And as Molly lay sick in bed, pale and thin with grief, the bastard broke into the Burrow and with two flashes of green light, killed both her and her husband.

He, however, did not leave the house alive. Later, ministry officials told her the Death Eater had been killed by a muggle weapon, which had launched a small piece of medal into his heart.

Curious, she had said. How something that small could end such great evil. In the end, it had been Arthur Weasley's fascination with everything muggle that ended Lucius's killing tirade.

Ginny often pictured that moment and replayed it in her mind. Three figures in her parent's bedroom. Molly was already dead. It was her father's turn now. But just as the green light emits from Malfoy's wand, Arthur lifts his arm and pulls the trigger.

And in an instant, he whom she hated and he whom she loved were taken from this world.

Sometimes, she wondered how things would have turned out had she been home at the time, if she hadn't been at St. Mungo's, helping with the sick. Could she have saved them? Or would she be dead as well?

What if. What could have been. And why things are the way they are.

And all those smiling faces at the wedding. As if they had all forgotten already. Perhaps, they were all like her. Fakes. Facades. Shells.

At the wedding, Harry had tried to tell her. "When Ron died…"

It's okay, Harry. It's not your fault they're gone. And it's not your fault you forgot me. When I can't even remember myself.

She felt her back hit the softness of the mattress. Without qualms, she pulled Malfoy down with her. These days, she had to remind herself he was the son of the killer.

He was whispering, muttering to her between kisses. She couldn't understand him, but it didn't seem to matter. He stroked her hair, held her to his chest, kissed her tears. And in his warmth, her sobs turned to hiccups and hiccups to slowed breathing. She soon closed her eyes and slept.

When her eyes opened, the sun had not yet risen. She was cold, still dressed in her knickers. The lights in the room had been doused and for a moment, she forgot where she was until she felt a hand on her waist shift.

Malfoy.

He was facing her, breathing evenly, wearing the same clothes he was in earlier, including his shoes.

She momentarily thought back to Molly's disapproval of shoes on the bed and before she knew what she was doing, she had pulled of his arms and was removing his shoes. Then, she climbed out of the bed and began adjusting the covers so he lay under them.

A year and a half ago, if anyone told her that she would be the only Weasley left alive, that Harry would wed Hermione, that she would be tucking Draco Malfoy into bed, she would surely have called them mad. And if they had told her she would unbutton his shirt as he pulled her under the covers with him, well that would never have crossed their minds.

The darkness shielded the vulnerability that came with gentle touches. Every caress, every butterfly kiss, every time his thumb brushed her cheek – the simplicity of his skin meeting hers almost made her forget that this was Malfoy enveloping her in the softest sex she'd ever had. This was only sex after all, she thought as he moved inside her. Somehow, the statement came with a question mark.

The thought was lost as she felt that heady satisfaction between her legs spread to the ends of her fingertips. He stilled momentarily as she panted heavily against his neck. When she was ready, she kissed him, letting him know to keep going. Her kiss signaled some kind of release, a steady quickening of pace that left her breathless and writhing beneath him. Please. Please. Please what? I don't know. Just this. Oh god oh god oh god. Sweat on his back. Buzzing on her lips from his. Arching. Kissing. Touching.

He came shortly after she did, slowing gradually, like the propeller of a plane that has just landed. He rested on top of her afterwards, like he did four nights ago when they were too drunk with wine and emotions to move. When he pulled out, he stayed close, but didn't hold her until she reached out for him.

It should always be like this. Simple. Kind. Mutual understanding.

Never mind the angry words. Or the gruesome past.

"I lied," he broke the silence.

It felt strange talking to her as she rested against his chest. Would the darkness protect them from each other's words?

"I lied about the dress. No one has ever worn it before you."

"Then, why did you say she did?" She sounded cold, distant, yet she was right there beside him.

"Because I wanted to make you jealous."

"You wanted to make me hurt."

"No." He pulled her in closer.

"He made you hurt. They did. My father. Tom Riddle. Voldemort. Harry Potter."

He held his breath. She seemed to flinch with each name, but made no move to pull away.

"I'm not my father," he said.

She thought back to Harry's words.

I was there when he… when he didn't kill Dumbledore. He, he isn't –

Isn't what?

"I know you're not," she whispered. "But you still hate us."

He didn't answer. So she wondered if it would ever be this soft again. If this civil conversation would be something they would both pretend to forget.

Afraid to find out for herself the next morning, she pulled away and rose out of the bed. He didn't stop her as she left his room and went to hers.

What was he up to, she wondered. And across the hall, he asked himself the same thing.

End of Chapter 3


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

With exception to the night she threw up in Malfoy's parlor, she had always managed to wake up at dawn to return to the Burrow. No point in staying longer than she had to, she figured. The secret to this "waking up" was to simply not sleep, just in case she overslept.

Which inevitably happened eventually.

It was the day of New Year's eve, although she had lost track of such things as New Year's and Christmas. Days in the Burrow and nights in the Manor. It sounded like the title of a cheesy soap opera, but it was the numbing repetition that made up her life.

Her usual mornings were spent sleeping in the Burrow. Her afternoons were spent cleaning and working on Auror training applications. Her evenings were spent in her mother's closet, sorting out her old things. She had found delicate dresses from decades ago, when Molly had been petite and slim. Ginny was too tall for the ones cut specifically for her mother's frame, but she crammed herself into them anyway, charming the fabric to fit her body.

In her head, she could hear her father tell her she was the spitting image of Molly in their youth. A lump would form in her throat as she stared at herself in the mirror.

She would also wonder what Molly would say. Something about her baby girl being grown up and beautiful.

Then she would wonder what Molly would say about Malfoy. Something she didn't want to think about.

These thoughts would stay with her as she flooed to Malfoy's mansion, sometimes directly to his bedroom.

Several hours later, she would floo back, mind void for anything except for his touch and the guilt that came with it.

Except, for the morning she awoke, still in the manor, to Malfoy's fingers in her folds and his mouth on her neck. Her eyes opened wide, but she lay wordlessly beneath him as he pushed himself into her. She swallowed, knowing she was already moistened for him. She lay still and silent, watching him watch her.

How did something as simple as him inside her make her create such ambivalent emotions? How did something as simple as gray eyes on brown send a shiver down her spine? But that was the whole point of this whole ordeal, wasn't it? So that she could feel again. She arched her back squeezed her eyes shut, gripping the sheets with her fingers. She half expected him to kiss her throat and nibble on her earlobes, but he didn't.

Nothing but a good morning fuck. None of that soft sex they had shared a few nights ago. They had returned to biting remarks and aggressive thrusts when she returned the next night. She supposed she was thankful. Just a few more days and it would be time to return to school. She could escape all this then, although _this_ was supposed to be the escape.

When she came, she bit her lip and held back the moan although she could hardly hide her heavy breathing. When he came, he was also silent, pulling out almost immediately afterwards, leaving her sore and cold. Her eyes were on the ceiling as he left her bed, then the room. Against her better instincts, she closed her eyes and went back to sleep.

It was noon before she woke for the second time. He was in her room again – this time, dressed and completely unlike the messy-haired man who she had seen earlier that morning.

"I'm paying you for sex, not for sleeping in when uninvited."

She returned his gaze, despite feeling rumpled and dirty in the sex-stained bed. Muggle-loving whore, she could hear him say. What had she become? No matter how many smart comments she shot back, the facts were still plain and clear. She was sleeping with him for money.

She rose without a reply and pulled her clothes on. Her underwear. Her bra. Then her jeans and sweater. Slipping on her shoes, she wordlessly walked past him to the fireplace.

He grabbed her hand before she threw the floo powder into the ashes, sending white dust flying around them.

"Did I say you could go?"

And so she didn't.

In fact, she stayed at the manor until her return to Hogwarts. There was, after all, no point in being lonely in the empty Burrow. So she chose the halls of her family's murderer over the cottage where the memories of her loved ones haunted her with overwhelming silence

She wore clothes that Malfoy picked for her – silk robes, transparent camisoles, filmy teddies – the wardrobe of a live-in prostitute. She avoided looking in mirrors in fear of seeing what she'd become. At least, he was rarely there to rub it in.

For the most part, he left her alone. They even took their meals separately. She spent most of the day in the guest room or the library, working on her auror training applications. Malfoy didn't question her activities and even ceased to come to her bedroom every evening.

She wondered where he was on the evenings she didn't see him. Was he across the hall laying awake like she was? Doubtful. Usually, when she realized his tardiness was actually absence, she found herself with her hands between her legs, rubbing the way she wanted him to.

On one such night, she heard the voice of another woman in the hall, cooing his name. Without knowing exactly why, she burst into quiet sobs that drenched her pillowcase with salty tears.

When he came to her the next night, she didn't speak to him, ignoring his taunts and lying lifelessly beneath him as he slammed into her with aggression. His frustration at her silence pleased her.

She continued this indifference for days, making his remarks ever more hurtful and his grip on her hips ever more bruising. He would do things to provoke her - talk of Harry and Hermione, of her family, of her worthlessness, of the wetness between her legs. Then, he would reach into her moist folds and stroke her till she almost came.

He would come into the library as she worked on her applications, groping her breasts and whispering taunts in her ear. She never showed how turned on she was, although he seemed to know anyway. She complied each time he told her to pull down her nightgown straps and to suck and swallow.

A regular whore, he said.

She thought, with a sinking feeling in her stomach, that he wasn't far from the truth.

When she finally gave in and responded to his biting comments, she realized it was the first time she had spoken for days. It was her last night in the manor. Then, when he pushed her against the wall and untied the sash of her robe, she reached up and pulled him in for a kiss. She didn't want any more bruises or soreness between her legs. She just wanted to close her eyes and pretend that someone loved her. But his thrusts were unkind and his attention to her nipples left bite marks on her breasts.

Though really, what could she say? Please fuck me softly. Yeah fucking right.

He left her in a crumpled heap against the wall of his study.

Let him win, she thought. It's not as if she cared anymore anyway. His cum dripped down her inner thigh as she walked back to her room.

It's funny how hurtful one can be to those they love.

But this wasn't love.

It was strange being in the company of normal, smiling faces when she returned to school. It wasn't hard to fall back into the routine of laughing over dinner and flying laps with the quidditch team. The girl wracked with grief, self-hatred, and lust was nowhere to be seen. She couldn't even picture herself wandering around the manor, dressed in see-through silk, waiting for Malfoy to fuck her.

She slept well at night, exhausted from homework and quidditch practice. She went to Hogsmeade with her friends, giggling over butterbeers and cute seventh year boys. When everyone around is normal, it's not hard to pretend.

She accepted dates and sometimes blushingly kissed the lucky guy at the end of the night. Where was the masked dancer? The smoky-eyed temptress? Let sleeping dragons lie.

She had lunch with Harry and Hermione in Hogsmeade every other weekend. She caught herself mentally switching places with Hermione, picturing her own hand intertwined with Harry's. The thought didn't excite her.

I'm happy for you two, she told them, and she hoped they knew she meant it.

She had a few weeks of normality, in which Gryffindor won three quidditch games and a flow of auror training acceptance letters fell into her lap over breakfast.

Ginny Weasley, everybody – Gryffindor golden girl.

No one questioned the golden girl when she received an unmarked package one morning and disappeared from the breakfast table.

She tore open the brown parcel paper upon reaching her room. An hour later, she was on her way to Hogsmeade, wearing a brand new coat, with strappy, black stilettos. The note had said to wear nothing underneath, but she carried a change of clothes with her just in case.

"Miss me?" He was standing by the window of the small hotel room, when she entered.

She said nothing, setting down her bag on the rickety breakfast table.

"Well, I suppose you didn't," he said. "After all, I happen to know you've been snogging blokes all over Hogsmeade."

"You had me watched?"

"Don't flatter yourself. Our old friend, Madame Ouellette, informed me of this when I inquired of your employment at her pub."

"Well, so what if I have?" Although she had barely even kissed a boy in the past month.

"Nothing," he sneered. "I just wanted to know if they pay as handsomely as I do."

Her arms crossed and her jaw clenched. "If you must know, I have been on several dates these past few weeks. And unlike you, none of them had to pay to have sex with me."

"Don't make yourself sound like a slut, Weasley. It's unappealing."

The familiar irritation and anger that came with his presence was back under her skin. They stood warily, like opponents separated by the distance of the room.

"Come here," he said finally. His voice was cold, but softer.

Shakily, with stiff knees, she walked over to his side.

"Do you want a drink?" He motioned to the wine bottle beside the bed.

She shook her head, standing awkwardly before him. Without further conversation, he pulled her closer to him by the belt of the coat and began undoing it. She held her breath as he unbuttoned each button, as he pushed the garment over her shoulders and onto a heap behind her. She froze as his eyes ran over her bare body.

"Come on, Weasley," he whispered, before kissing her. "Don't be a stranger."

She was wet before his lips touched hers. She found herself running her hands over his chest, tugging impatiently at his belt, ripping his buttons from his shirt. She heard him chuckle at her eagerness, but she didn't care.

When he was undressed, she led him by the hand and pushed him onto the bed. He pulled her on with him, flipping her onto her back. Warm hands ran over every inch of her body as hot kisses trailed down her stomach. She arched her back when his tongue hit her folds. She had missed this feeling – the way he kissed, the way he touched, the way he knew her body inside out. Her hands were in his hair, pulling him from between her legs before she came.

He understood, spreading her nether lips apart with his hands before pushing himself into her. She could taste herself on him as his tongue probed her mouth. As he entered her slowly with a shuddering breath, she wondered if he could tell that he was the last to have her.

The thought was lost amidst frantic kisses and touches, sucking and biting and thrusting, heavy breathing and suppressed moans. She had missed this feeling.

He, too, found a certain comfort in their sex. In the month that she had returned to Hogwarts, he had thrown himself into work. Investments everywhere, buying out failing companies, creating jobs – Draco Malfoy was quickly becoming associated with economic reform and recovery. Of course, he didn't do this out of pure philanthropy. He had plenty to gain and little to lose, with deep pockets and a tarnished family name. When he got lonely, he found himself between the legs of one socialite or another, but when he closed his eyes and ignored their breathy gasps, he would lose himself in _her_.

Her - this beautiful, ambitious girl who had seen too much and had too little. He wondered if she had pretended he was Potter as he had fucked her all those times. Sometimes, he would hold her head between his hands and force her to look at him, just to make sure she was seeing him and not some green-eyed, scar-faced –

He hated thinking about Potter when he was inside her. He secretly felt relieved when she had told him to never mention Potter during sex, but he did anyway, just to gauge her reaction, just to help him guess their past. He wanted to get in her head, to see what was behind those long-lashed, warm eyes. They were one in the same – alone in the world, with a mutual understanding of need.

All he ever managed to do was to push her away, but hurtfulness was the only way to elicit a response. That and this – he loved the way her barriers fell as he moved inside her, revealing honest lust and want.

She threw her head back and bit her lip when she came, tightening around him in a hundred tiny pulses. He held on for a few more seconds before following her climax, eventually coming to a rest on top of her. Soft. Warm. Lovely. She felt like home.

He pulled out, but held her close. He told himself to let go. To not let her see him needing as much as she did. Instead, he kissed her lightly, watching her eyes flutter shut as her lips parted for his. When she opened them, they had a mischievous glint in their brown depths. He smiled and let her do as she pleased, sure that it would please him in return.

He wasn't disappointed.

When she rose to leave, it was dark. He lay, sated, on the bed, watching her button up the coat over her sex stained body.

She disappeared without a goodbye out the door, heels clicking down the hall, mind clouded with him. His chiseled body, his pale skin, his agile hands, his gray eyes. And before she could stop herself, she wished she could run back into the room and stay there forever.

End of Chapter Four


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

ooooooooooooooo

In June, Ginny Weasley graduated from the top of her class. A reporter from the Daily Prophet did a little column on the amazing young lady, who according to the article "braved the much mourned deaths of her family through her final year at Hogwarts, where she still managed to help Gryffindor win the Quidditch cup and pull marks high enough to become valedictorian. Truly, she is an inspiration to all of us. In the fall, she will be attending the Defense School of Switzerland, where she will enroll in one of the most prestigious auror training programs in the world. When we asked this promising, and pretty, young woman about a special man in her life, she blushed and denied having any romantic entanglements."

At this point in the article, Draco Malfoy stopped reading. He had attended her graduation. The memories of the evening that followed found her sucking him off in his study. Who knew that the Gryffindor golden girls gave such great head? Especially to him of all people… He chuckled at the thought of sending in a naughty photograph of Weasley licking his balls to the Daily Prophet, with a raunchy caption like, "Golden girl enjoys pleasuring son of family's killer."

Although, he knew better than anyone that the caption would read more like "Son of family's killer takes advantage of vulnerable surviving daughter." Still, he didn't feel badly about the arrangement. By that point in time, she was arriving at the manor's steps every evening without his having to tell her to. They still had their mandatory quips, but any insults exchanged stayed within the bounds of Gryffindor and Slytherin rivalry, and away from more personal issues.

Since their reunion at the rundown inn, he noticed that she no longer mentioned Lucius. Let the dead lie in their graves, he thought, and held his tongue about her rather larger, though also deceased family. And here, the danger began.

Six weeks into summer, she was lounging on his bed, minimally covered in his bathrobe, turning a page in book from his library. The room still smelt slightly of their sex, but it was matter of fact, like the way she handled this whole situation. It was the eighth book she had read that summer at Malfoy Manor. He too was settled into the routine, sitting at a table, reading up on progress reports of various companies he had bough out. And in an instant, he realized a strange comfort that made him uncomfortable. He tried to focus on his work, but he barely got through a single report before he slammed it down on the table and strode over to the bed.

She looked up at him, reading glasses perched seductively on her nose.

"Yes?" She snapped the book shut and smiled lightly.

Did she mean to look the way she did? The bathrobe loosely tied, a breast carelessly exposed, and her hair tied up in a way that left little tendrils framing her face. An alarm went off in his head. She looked too happy. She looked too much like she belonged here. With him. In his bed. Reading his books. Wearing his robe.

He smacked the book out of her hands and yanked her legs so that she lay flat on the bed. Then without warning, he was on top of her. And for a moment, it was there – the look of confusion and fear he was looking for. He grabbed her hand to his half-hard erection and she stroked him almost robotically. His hands on her breasts were unkind, pulling, tugging, and kneading until she tried to flinch away. He was hard then and instantly between her legs. The room was silent save for the awful sound of their flesh slapping. He looked away as he pounded into her with a determination to… to do what? He knew it was hurting her, that the friction of his length in her was uncomfortable and in that thought, he sought a sick but necessary reassurance that had him ready to come in minutes. He pulled out when he was ready, ejaculating onto her stomach. He then yanked his robe from her body, donned it, and looked coldly down at what he had just done.

She was almost in tears. He could tell because he knew the signs – the tightening of her lower lip, the downcast and narrowed eyes, the tightly clenched fingers. Her legs were still splayed open, as if it would not occur to her to close them.

"I'm going out. I'll be back in a few hours. Clean yourself up. Be in your room by the time I return."

With that, he turned and left.

When the door slammed shut, she gathered her legs to her chest, letting his cum smear over the tops of her thighs. Her eyes fell to the novel she had been reading minutes before. What had just happened? In a daze, she swallowed her tears and rose from the bed, not even bothering to gather a sheet around her body before making her way to his bathroom. She got into the shower and let hot water rinse away signs of his assault.

The initial threat of tears gone, her eyes remained dry. Of course she was upset by what he just did, she told herself. It was an obvious attempt to hurt her, to remind her that she was worthless, that she was something to be used carelessly and tossed aside. Knowing all this, she was troubled that she was not more upset. Was she broken? What was wrong with her? Why was she not furious that he once again took advantage of her vulnerability? She slowly brought a hand to her clit, gently touching what he had just violated. Nothing. No pain. No rage. No tears.

The numbness continued to worry her as she stepped out of the shower. She dressed across the hall, in what he had referred to as "her room." How very like him to go out of his way to break to peace, and keep her caged so he can come back and break it some more.

Funny. Most people drink so they could become numb. She poured the brandy, hoping that it would make her feel. The glass in hand, she went back to his room and retrieved the novel he had tossed aside. She then retreated to her bed and read and drank till the words blurred. Alone, she drank some more. Two hours had passed since he left.

Three hours.

Four hours.

She lost count of how many drinks she slowly sipped, alone in the grand bed, wanting to cry, waiting to feel.

If only the Daily Prophet could see her now.

At the bottom of her last glass, she found the extent of her loneliness. She hadn't felt this alone in months. She had no family. No friends she wished to seek out. If she was honest with herself, her favorite companion of the past few months had been the son of Lucius Malfoy, who employed her for the very purpose of humiliating and violating her at his pleasure. It was sick.

At the bottom of the crucible is the essence of human character, uncovered chiefly by catastrophe and war. Was this her character? This weak, sick creature that sought solace in pain.

She expected him to come back with some other girl on his arm, like that night over winter break. Maybe that would make her cry again.

She desperately wanted to cry, as if tears would prove to her some validity in her existence.

He was alone when he came back. Unable to stop herself, she stumbled into the hall when she heard his footsteps approaching.

Look at me, she said without speaking. Look at what I've become. I let you do this to me. Are you happy now?

He was unreadable and transparent at the same time.

What would Ginny Weasley do in this moment, she asked herself. After all, she was no longer Ginny Weasley. Because Ginny Weasley would say something smart and chillingly cruel in this moment. She would stand up for herself by treading on his insecurities. She would fight back somehow. And as awful as Ginny Weasley sounded, she wished more than anything to be that girl.

She strode, or stumbled rather, up to him and shoved at him the hardest she could. He fell without retaliation, letting her push his shoulders to the ground as she straddled his stomach. The first blow was a slap, the second and third punches. In her inebriated state, her strength was significantly diminished, so he let her throw fourth and fifth punches. She was sobbing violently by then.

"Why? Why? Why?"

Forlorn. Desperate. Angry.

Sighing, he knew he should push her off and kick her out. Let her drunk ass find her way back to that decrepit hut she called the Burrow. But he just couldn't. So he let her throw feeble punches at his face and held her as she stilled. She tumbled off him easily when he tried to stand. He lifted her still sobbing frame and took her to his room. He was too tired to resist anymore, to resist what they had become.

"I'm sorry," he whispered when her tears finally dried. "I should not have done what I did."

And I should not have let you, she thought. But she could not speak, because she also knew that she shouldn't let him do what he was doing now. She should push away the hand that was caressing her back and once again leading them back to where they were earlier that day, some alternate universe where they could coexist in harmony. It was so easy though, to let him continue, to let him crane his head and kiss her gently on the forehead, her left cheek, her lips, her neck. It was so easy to run her hands through his hair to let him know that it was okay, that all was forgotten.

She was caught in limbo, between choosing the right or the desired.

Help, she wanted to say.

And he was there, to help her into a hot bath, to wipe the dried tear streaks from her face with a warm cloth, to dress her in his pajamas, to bring her to bed and tuck her in. This wasn't Draco Malfoy. And she was no longer Ginny Weasley.

She was too drunk to think anymore.

"I'm a raging alcoholic," she said to him as he crawled into bed with her.

He almost smiled in response.

He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her in close. Her softness was so familiar and so necessary that he could no longer picture sleeping without her. What would tomorrow bring? Back to little quips? Back to jabbing at wounds that had only begun to scar? Back to feral sex and need and lust and want. Whatever it would be, he made up his mind to keep her by his side for the rest of the summer. Because it was no longer just a contract – this was for sure. It was no longer about her need for tuition or his need to hurt her. Hurting her this afternoon caused no satisfaction on his end, and not the right kind of grief on her end. It was too late already to revert back to who they were, because they were already changed. When had it happened?

They drifted off to sleep thinking the same thing.

oooooooooooooo

end of chapter 5


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